


Protect Ya Neck

by adiostoreadoormat (choicescarfsylveon)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Homophobia, Humanstuck, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, Racism, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 08:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16950927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choicescarfsylveon/pseuds/adiostoreadoormat
Summary: Tavros seemed to fall from a cloud into your life out of nowhere. Smart, sure of who he was, a punk ass, but not in a way that lept for attention, tried too hard. He justwasthat way, for all that the boyish exterior was golden brown sparkles and pretty, pretty, pretty. The shaved sides of his head, the tongue ring, his ripped jeans and Birkenstocks, gave hints to the rebel he was, but no one expected what “that quiet guy” said when he really got going.





	Protect Ya Neck

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little warm-up to get me back into writing Homestuck fic again. Once upon a time, I authored “[Your Coffee In The Morning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/504122),” which I then orphaned for reasons I can’t remember now honestly. I never wrote enough about this rare pair when I was deep in fandom. It was actually the first HS thing ever I shipped <3 lol
> 
> This is supposed to be set in 2007ish. Title from [Wu-Tang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZrQ0VMHK0Ec)

 

 

 

 

 

 

When you get to the slavery chapter of the history book, your classmates turn around and stare at you.

 

They stare anyway, Gamzee Makara, on account of you’re a six foot three juggalo who’s usually wearing face paint, even though it goes against the dress code. Today though, that’s not the thing; you ain’t even wearing the paint today, on account of your new boyfriend says he likes to see your naked face. Today, you’re the real you, and it’s not like they’re _saying_ anything about it – most of the looks ain’t even disparaging, or hateful, but it’s like they pity you. They don’t wanna touch it, afraid you’re so capricious that you might burst. You’re usually too high and relaxed to care about what any of these motherfuckers think of you, but they’ve tiptoed around this – yes, you’re black, usually the only one in class at a given time – enough that you’ve started to wanna say something out loud about it.

 

“Don’t you all up and worry your fuckin’ heads,” you chuckle. “We ain’t slaves no more.”

 

 

 

 

Your little quip got you sent to the guidance office. Your history teacher says it was because you used the word “fuck.” You think that’s fair.

 

When you get to the row of upholstered chairs outside the office, Tavros is seated there also, as well as two freshmen who always get pulled in for being late to first period. You happen to know, they’re always late because they huff enamel behind the bleachers.

 

Tavros stretches his legs, smiles all warm and bright when he sees you. You sit down next to him, smile back, place your hand on his thigh, squeeze firmly. The freshmen next to you side eye your intimate contact, giving each other a look that asks that question. You and Tavros don’t answer to anybody, though.

 

“What’d you get your bad motherfucking self up into this early?” you ask Tavros.

 

“I should uh, be asking you that.”

 

“Went and made a black joke. Ill fuckin’ timed, probably the kind of shit that’s best left in the morning frying pan.”

 

“They can’t actually, send you in here for making a black joke,” Tavros says, suddenly serious.

 

“Nah, that ain’t why. It’s cause I said ‘fuck’ while makin’ it.”

 

Tavros grins. “I uh, told Mr. Bradshaw that, saying the Native Americans, ‘shared the land and made room,’ actually downplays the forced genocide, and white supremacy, of the situation. Then he told me that, my mohawk was out of dress code, again.”

 

Things are easy with you and Tavros. It’s not just because you’re one of three black kids in school, and no one knows where to place him really, so they assume he’s at least half you. It’s because for all that Tavros seems shy, and all that most of your thoughts stay hidden in your head, around each other, that shit just flows. He’s been your best friend for the last year, ever since his family moved into the project down the street from yours, and your mothers traded tips about how to make your address look like you live in the district for college-prep schools.

 

It’s because Tavros seemed to fall from a cloud into your life our of nowhere. Smart, sure of who he was, a punk ass, but not in a way that lept for attention, tried too hard. He just _was_ that way, for all that the boyish exterior was golden brown sparkles and pretty, pretty, pretty. The shaved sides of his head, the tongue ring, his ripped jeans and Birkenstocks, gave hints to the rebel he was, but no one expected what “that quiet guy” said when he really got going.

 

And you’d been ostensibly alone, before his move. You hadn’t minded that too much. Helping moms out with the little ones, now that your dad is prison, has been all the company and busywork you’ve really needed. But now that you have him – he has been over to your house almost every day since - you’ve realized that maybe something isn’t right about the little world you’ve occupied, since you were a kid. Maybe it’s okay to say something sometimes.

 

“ _My body is a hanger._  
“ _Don’t tell me you ‘appreciate black culture’_  
_“‘Cause Kim K’s tape with Ray J is your homepage._  
_“The world’s your stage, ain’t it, Justin and Britney?_  
_“I’m your player, your cast member,_  
_“A backdrop in your history.”_

 

You never used to share the little raps and poetries that you’ve been scribbling into your journals since you were ten. He writes them too, though they’re less rap and more prose. He sits with you in the bedroom that you share with your little sister and brother; moms won’t be home for another five hours, back out at her second job, and the kids are playing next door with the neighbor. Tavros has a joint in his hands, rolling it unlit between his fingers as he listens to you read, his legs propped up on your desk.

 

“I like it,” he says, and you catch his socked foot in your hand as he bounces it. “Is that like, Justin Timberlake, and Britney Spears, that you reference?”

 

“I hadn’t even motherfucking thought of that. See, this is why I keep you all up in here. You always spread light to my shit.”

 

“Well uh, speaking of light.”

 

Tavros sparks the joint, takes the first hit. Passes it to you. He then sets up the incense in its holder, keeps the scent covered; the little ones are too young to know what it is, and moms is out late enough that she’ll never catch on. Well, she has one or two times. She hit you over the head for it, told you that you’re too smart, that getting kicked out of that prep school could kill what might be the first real chance you’ll have to make it out of your father’s block. But she hasn’t told Tavros’ mother; that’s mostly because she knows that Tavros’ mother smokes, too.

 

You hit the joint a couple times, but you ain’t trying to get too high for this tonight. It’s part of the no-clown-make-up stint you’re after with him; you wanna be lucid. Remember these little moments, the way that Tavros looks after he’s just finished doing homework in your spot, the sunset from the window making his eyes glow umber.

 

Remember the way that he sings to no music; you pull him into your lap, and he swivels the chair beneath you, spinning his hips. You just wanna do this dance with him forever. That sounds all kinds of fucking crazy, and you know it; he hasn’t asked you how long you plan to be boyfriends with him, it’s still pretty new, and who fucking knows what’ll happen when college inevitably comes. Tavros is smarter than you are, a little more focused, bound for Columbia or Stanford or some shit. You’ll get into a four year, but not anything near the likes that he will.

 

When he kisses you, that stops mattering much, for both of you. You’ve already discussed that it’s like you knew each other from somewhere else, before all this.And yeah, you’re both gay, but that’s not what this is really about. Sure the convenience of y’all both being two guys from the hood who also like to get up and sensitive with your best man friends every once in a while, is going to be the opportunity you take while you still have the chance. But the really important thing? Is that neither of you have to feel alone in this ever again. Whether this relationship is going to stay flush or not, he’s this mirror image you’ve found, who knows what it’s like to live trapped inside your own insecurities. Even after this all ends,you’ll make sure any boyfriend he has after you treats him like the treasure he is.

 

While you still get to be Tavros’ boyfriend, you pick him up and take him to the bed. The joint, half forgotten, sits in your ash tray on your desk, burning slow, as you peel the clothes from his skin, nip and bite and wrestle with him, his guffawing laughter filling your ears and making you sweat.

 

You play for almost an hour; then you decide to get decent, be the mini adults of the house, get something ready for the little ones when they get back. Tavros cooks the rice and you stir the pot of your mom’s gumbo, simmering hours. He tells you that he thinks his mother might have lung cancer; you weren’t all expecting that, but he says it so casually, like this is just another normal dinner conversation. He says that it’s actually been a long time, that he’s known, deep down.

 

You’re about to pull him an embrace, when suddenly, something loud vibrates in one of the closed kitchen drawers. It’s a cell phone, a burner, jiggling obnoxiously against the sharpened knives and meat thermometers.

 

Rage flares up inside you fast; that phone means it’s your dad calling, from inside the prison or worse. Mom said, she _promised_ you, that she wouldn’t keep in contact or speak on him anymore.

 

“Is that...?” Tavros doesn’t finish. He watches you from just before the stove; not even his careful gaze can stir what’s started boiling in you, at least not yet. It almost helps enough when he touches your arm, firm, a silent reminder that you are here and your father is not. Still though, he hasn’t been here to see that motherfucker’s bullsh—the way he forces your mom to smuggle shit, the way the little ones see it. Tavros has only heard, in this last peaceful year, but he has not _seen_ —

 

You rattle the drawer open, harsher than you expect. The black burner keeps on buzzing, unknown caller, flip top shut, blue screen all lit. You can’t tell if you want to answer it, keep it to confront your mom with, or throw it out the window.

 

“I’m sorry,” you say to him, watching the phone, waiting for the current call to drop. “Must be from inside his fuckin’ cell. That’s not what we were just discussing.”

 

“No.” Tavros has not faltered still, not even seeing you lose your cool for a minute there. He hasn’t done anything to deserve this display. You feel like shit, reach for his hands, take them and kiss them in apology. “That is um, definitely an issue, if that’s… how does he get the phones, in there, and out again? I mean, does he—“

 

“Connections.” So many connections, you don’t wanna think about it. It makes you wanna close the shades, hide the sunlight from this beautiful boy’s face. Get the little ones in. “But you were all talking about your mother.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, she—“

 

Barreling knocks on the front door cut the two of you off. This isn’t what you need right now, another prison break from him. He’s off his game, though. Been gone a time too long. Your mom’s not home. It’s your house to protect now.

 

You take Tavros with you, hand in hand, to open the front door; he squeezes your fingers tight, not scared one bit, though you didn’t expect him to be. He knows that men like this are cowards, just like you do. Your dad stands there, casual as ever, jacket and jeans covering his dirty prison jumpsuit.

 

He smiles at you. Looks right down at your hands, entwined with Tavros’.

 

“Moms ain’t here,” you tell him simply.

 

“She take her phone with her to work?” You could really do without the way this guy is staring at Tavros, all fake friendly. Not looking you in the eye as he speaks. “She hasn’t been answering.”

 

“’Cause she’s a motherfucking nurse’s assistant. She’s all probably got her hands in someone’s guts. Not that you care. Kids’ll be back in a minute. Time for you to fuckin’ go.”

 

He leaves immediately, not turning back. Probably knows you’ll call the cops. Tavros is silent, moving to resume the cooking as you certainly do call the motherfucking police. You ain’t snitch enough to tell them he came here – family comes first, you don’t even tell them it’s you – but you give them the cross streets of anywhere he could reasonably be in a couple minutes. Tavros is spooning pork-filled broth into bowls just as your brother and sister come bounding in, the elderly neighbor giving you a wink as she hands you your spare key in the doorway.

 

 

 

 

 

The next day at school, you and Tavros make your way to the private spot you’ve culled for your lunches. Out in the back, up in one of the giant trees, you sit with him and lightly debate whether Tupac is really dead or not over one of his mom’s pb&j sandwiches. You’re team conspiracy: motherfucker’s in Cuba hiding out, someone’s got pictures, granted they’re blurry, you saw it on Worldstar. Tavros, wicked stubborn love of yours, doesn’t wanna believe in miracles.

 

“That is obviously, the fakest fakery,” he contests, smearing some of the jelly from his hands across your bare face. You reach across the steady thick branch and yank him into you, rubbing your slain cheek against his, and the sound of his laughter enraptures you. He struggles with you playfully, until he loses his balance and almost swings right off the branch. You catch him quick, saving his legs, pull him up and into your lap. His mouth tastes sweet. You worship him.

 

He hasn’t talked about his mom anymore; you’ve been meaning to ask, but then you haven’t wanted to bring up anything about last night, at least, the worse parts. There hadn’t been time to talk about it further, what with the little ones home, and your mom home not long after that. Tavros left at around nine, after helping put the kids to bed, going home to help his mom tuck his little sister in. There wasn’t any reason for you tell your mom yourself, about what happened—one of the neighbors on the block called the landline just as you were about to spin that shit, said they saw her estranged man out and wandering the streets, getting arrested again on Crenshaw hours ago. She’d cried immediately, and that had made it really hard to give her the stern, about the burner and the fact that she really needs to let him go.

 

“Just wait,” she’d said, “’til you’re in love. You’ll do anything. No matter how stupid. Anything.”

 

Tavros isn’t coming over tonight, on account of he needs to start spending more time with his mother again. That was all he did give up on the matter, as you parted ways on your street after school. Said that hanging out with you is his favorite thing, that he’ll see you tomorrow morning, but that part of him has been avoiding seeing her actually sick.

 

Finishing up your homework without him takes a little more effort than you’ve grown used to. The half a joint from yesterday sticks out of your ash tray, tempting you with vexation. You ignore it, mostly. Getting high just makes you wanna write about him.

 

Then you get the phone call—it’s eleven, your siblings sleep on the bed, and you haven’t curled all up next to them yet, thinking about how you sat in this chair last night and span with him in it. Your mother comes in, crying, and you think it’s about your dad.

 

“It’s Tavros,” she whispers. “He was hit by a car.”

 

You run – fucking full sprint motherfucking run – to the hospital, the twenty five minutes it takes you, barefoot, still in your fucking pajamas. There’s glass and dirty shit all over the ground, and it cuts your feet open. You can’t feel that shit really. No pain. You’re numb.

 

You ask to see him, when you get there, and they tell you you aren’t family. Numbness is replaced with rage as you sit in the crowded lobby, stewing in it quietly. His sister comes out to get you, her mother having told her that your mother called them, assuming that’s where you’d bolted. Tavros’ sister takes you into the room, and there Tavros is: awake, though drowsy, with both of his legs hoisted up above his bed, in full, thick, white casts.

 

His mother sits at his bedside; when she sees you, she rises slowly.

 

“He was walking back from the store,” she explains, her voice coarse. “Getting milk. Someone just. Didn’t see him crossing. Didn’t stop. Hit and run.”

 

You shake, every bone inside you shakes. Tavros, however, does not look angry. He stares at you, level, his face bruised and cut.

 

“Mom,” he says, soft. “Can we, have a minute, alone?”

 

She goes to take her son’s hand, kisses it, and then holds on your hand, briefly, on her way out into the hall. Some of her touch soothes you, as does the similar touch by his little sister. But not enough.

 

As soon as they’re gone, the rage develops another layer. Grief.

 

“If he motherfucking did this to you.” You drop into the chair by his bedside, hands over one of his. The way your dad looked at him. Connections. “I swear, if he had any motherfucking part of this—”

 

Tavros places his hand to your lips, and you stop.

 

“It was an accident. Sometimes, these things just happen.”

 

You shouldn’t be the one to fucking cry about all this. Tavros tells you that his spinal cord was damaged, along with the complete breaks in all the major bones of his legs. He tries to make light of it, in fact, cracks a joke about how it was actually your sick rhymes, that did him in. “Paralyzed me, with their sickness.”

 

“What the motherfuck is wrong with you?” You don’t mean it, through your tears, and part of you wants to _laugh_ at what he said, confusing, heartbroken, fucking inappropriate laughter. “Where’s the punk who don’t put up with fucking bullshit that I know you are? We ain’t about to take this lying down, Tavros. I’m gonna find them. I’m gonna k—”

 

“Kill them.” Tavros nods, then, the smile dropping off his face. “That, is probably the stupidest fucking thing, that you could do right now. Aren’t you the one, who’s always talking about, that we aren’t slaves? We can’t be slaves, to our anger.”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“No, I’m going to do, the thing you’re telling me not to do. It is one thing, to be angry about collective history. To be angry, about why our families are stuck, why we live somewhere that’s, really, really shit, and everyone else gets to rise above. It is one thing, to be angry about the generations, about what we can’t change. But, Gamzee, we can change this.”

 

“How? Can we unbreak your legs? Can we—”

 

He lets you stop, stop that train of thought, realize that the drivers did really disappear into the dark. That even if you ran out into the night right now, rampaged, on a theory, searching for them, for the answers to all this. That revenge would only fuel on a cycle of revenge, and this ain’t the social justice shit. Wanting an entire race of people to overcome centuries of oppression is not the same as almost losing a single loved one. This is about you and him.

 

This is about both of you getting out of the little world.

 

“What we are going to do,” Tavros says, “is get me a really pimp, wheelchair, with spinners. Your rap act, will be much more sympathetic, with a wingman who’s a paraplegic. Go back to school, go to college, and leave. Together.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

You love him more with each passing moment. Tavros takes the wheelchair in stride, though it isn’t without its struggles, its hard days. Sometimes he hates the way that you have to wait on him, the way that he feels pitiful. You take notes for him in classes while he’s on bed rest, refusing to let this circumstance stop him from the person he’s going to become. The person he already is. When he gets back to school, you’re back to your usual anctics: even more of a queer eye sore, you without your paint, six feet tall, dark and towering over them, and him, with his chair, complete with spinners and flashing lights and gloves that have his name embroidered on them, all his beautiful browns and blacks and colors. You still don’t care what anyone thinks of you.

 

You love him more as each year passes. Graduation day, at which he graduates summa cum laude, you promise to record a spoken word album together. Him at Stanford and you at nearby Santa Clara, you continue to build each other up. You are known on both your campuses for your riling, interruptive speeches during classes.

 

You change what you can, keep each other close, and let all that other shit go.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
